Alas! unconscious maiden! night shall close, And love and sovereignty and life dissolve, And Egypt be one desert drenched in blood. When thunder overhangs the fountain’s head, Losing its wonted freshness every stream Grows turbid, grows with sickly warmth suffused: Thus were the brave Iberians when they saw The king of nations from his throne descend. Scarcely, with pace uneven, knees unnerved, Reached he the waters: in his troubled ear They sounded murmuring drearily; they rose Wild, in strange colours, to his parching eyes; They seemed to rush around him, seemed to lift From the receding earth his helpless feet. He fell—Charoba shrieked aloud—she ran— Frantic with fears and fondness, mazed with woe, Nothing but Gebir dying she beheld. The turban that betrayed its golden charge Within, the veil that down her shoulders hung, All fallen at her feet! the furthest wave Creeping with silent progress up the sand, Glided through all, and raised their hollow folds. In vain they bore him to the sea, in vain Rubbed they his temples with the briny warmth: He struggled from them, strong with agony, He rose half up, he fell again, he cried “Charoba! O Charoba!” She embraced His neck, and raising on her knee one arm, Sighed when it moved not, when it fell she shrieked, And clasping loud both hands above her head, She called on Gebir, called on earth, on heaven. “Who will believe me? what shall I protest? How innocent, thus wretched! God of gods, Strike me—who most offend thee most defy— Charoba most offends thee—strike me, hurl From this accursed land, this faithless throne. O Dalica! see here the royal feast! See here the gorgeous robe! you little thought How have the demons dyed that robe with death. Where are ye, dear fond parents! when ye heard My feet in childhood pat the palace-floor, Ye started forth and kissed away surprise: Will ye now meet me! how, and where, and when? And must I fill your bosom with my tears, And, what I never have done, with your own! Why have the gods thus punished me? what harm Have ever I done them? have I profaned Their temples, asked too little, or too much? Proud if they granted, grieved if they withheld? O mother! stand between your child and them! Appease them, soothe them, soften their revenge, Melt them to pity with maternal tears— Alas, but if you cannot! they themselves Will then want pity rather than your child. O Gebir! best of monarchs, best of men, What realm hath ever thy firm even hand Or lost by feebleness or held by force! Behold thy cares and perils how repaid! Behold the festive day, the nuptial hour!” Thus raved Charoba: horror, grief, amaze, Pervaded all the host; all eyes were fixed; All stricken motionless and mute: the feast Was like the feast of Cepheus, when the sword